


Prismatic Juxtaposition

by Everlind



Series: Jockat AU [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Boys in dresses, First Time, Frottage, High School AU, Humanstuck, M/M, and stringbean John with a skateboard, featuring a buff football playing Karkat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6002200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively: <i>"you know there’s saucy witchcraft involved if it touched Damara’s butt"</i><br/>Direct sequel to Kaleidoscopic Consensus. After bombing the school with glitter and causing several nervous breakdowns, John goes on a date with Karkat. While wearing the dress. Karkat might be about to have a nervous breakdown or two (or five) himself.<br/> </p><p>Suddenly the desk is behind him, you got him pinned and he’s wide-eyed, maybe a little scared, you’re built like a tank compared to him. His breathing stutters. Your hormones howl through your blood.</p><p>You draw back. “Sorry,” you gasp, dropping your head to his shoulder.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“We can. We can. Video games. Do you want to play video games? We can play video games.”</p><p>John nudges you with his chin. “Do <i>you</i> want to play video games?"</p><p> <br/>Spoiler: they don't play video games.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prismatic Juxtaposition

 

The dress is short. Really. fucking. _short_.

John might not have much going on in the sway of his hips, but the holy fuck does the hem of that trice blasted dress swish saucily from side-to-side against the tops of his thighs. Witchcraft. Witchcraft straight from Damara Megido’s glutes.

You’re only looking because someone’s got to make sure it doesn’t ride up and presents his pallid posterior to the whole goddamn town. Lives are at stake here, small innocent children might be blinded by that which has never seen the daylight. This is a very noble sacrifice you are making here. You’re nothing if not a philanthropist.

John does not look cute in the dress at all. It’s ridiculous, it has Damara cooties and his legs have more hair than you’ve got on your head. It’s absolutely terrible.

…he looks lovely.

“Karkat, stop looking at my butt!”

“No. Fuck you.”

John pretends to produce pen and paper from his non-existent cleavage. Dictates with a flourish: “Not… a… gentleman. Strike one, dude.”

“Excuse you?!”

“Strike one out of three! You better shape up mister, or there’ll be a penalty!”

You throw him a sideways glare, lip curling. John smiles back. “You can’t give me a penalty when I’m taking your ass, your naked ass at that, out to dinner.”

John looks down. “I’m perfectly decent.” He smooths out the skirt of the dress around his hips -your eyes follow the fluid motion of the fabric against his skin. It does not go unnoticed, John wags his brows, once, twice, and you wrench your eyes back towards the road, face hot with fury.

“Your balls are basically swinging through free space right now, John,” you bite at him. “If you aren’t careful you’re going to clock some vertically challenged asshole around the ears.”

“Hey! I am totally wearing underwear!” Oh, yes, you noticed. Some lacy skimpy thing that had felt like it’d shred between the tips of your fingers if you weren’t careful. Hadn’t done a fantastic job of containing his ass (you weren’t complaining then, but you sure as fuck are complaining now).

Despite the fact that John is a moderately tall boy wearing a) disgusting yellow Vans b) mismatching socks c) about a box worth of bandaids on his legs alone and d) a goddamn dress (see also e) _panties_ ), you’ve yet to get screamed at. There’s plenty of confused double takes before John registers as a dude, especially in direct comparison to you at his side, both a head taller and heavier easy. Probably think he’s a tall tomboy. Still, John doesn’t look like a girl. String bean or not, he’s got surprisingly broad shoulders. Which are on glorious display, fabric gripping the swell of biceps with tense little wrinkles.

Must be cold.

“I can’t believe you’re wearing a dress,” you tell him.

A snort. John tries to stick his hands in pockets that aren’t there. He’s left looking puzzled and suddenly vulnerable, all long limbs and bare skin. You shrug out of your team jacket, drop it around his shoulders. For the first time the collar looks rough and heavy around the paleness of his throat. Shit.

“Hm. But do you like it?”

You don’t deign to answer that. Instead your raise your lip and grab his hand. “Just. Shut up. Whatever you do you better don’t get us kicked out of the restaurant.”

“Alright,” John agrees, light and easy.

His fingers lace through yours.

*

So it’s Valentine’s Day.

When your date is one John Egbert, you’d be a geyser of stupidity to expect actual romance. You didn’t make a dinner reservation expecting this to be like an actual date. You and John have gone places before, like, in actual fucking public. The arcade. The movie theatre. The pizzeria. The arcade some more. Yeah. Riveting shit.

(No, okay, that’s not fair, you had a great time. But. It’s like hanging out with friends. Which is nice! Better than nice, more than you ever expected. This, however, this is hardcore boyfriends stuff. _You_ wanted this.)

So, naturally, you’re a little taken off guard when John holds the door for you. Maybe -maybe!- your face goes warm when he pulls your chair out for you.

And maybe you totally fucking gape when he produces a hefty bouquet of flowers and presents them to you. Your educated guess is that he literally pulled those out of his arse. Seriously, where else could he have been hiding those -because that dress conceals absolutely jackshit.

They’re Cardinal Red Roses. There’s even a card. The card had poetry. Kind of. There was an attempt.

you are as beautiful as a piece of bling   
you make my heart sing  
i want to make you feel like a king  
i hate rhyming  
  
happy valentine’s day :D  


You are appalled.

You are totally charmed.

You glare at John, who’s looking way too fucking pleased with himself.

You take the flowers. You are not an idiot. Whether they came from the eternal void that is John’s Egbert colon or not, those roses are yours. Nobody’s… nobody’s ever given you flowers before. John is still smiling.

“Who’s the gentleman now, huh?” he whispers.

You just sit there holding the roses, confused. This… you were not expecting this. Suddenly, it’s too weird. Your heart doesn’t know what to _do_.

Seems like the waiter doesn’t know what to do, either. He looks at John in his dress with his elbows all over the table like an ill-mannered stray, who winks. The waiter blinks, turns, and leaves. Probably to fetch the bouncer (if restaurants even have bouncers -if they haven’t already you’re sure they’re hiring after dealing with John).

“Egbert I made this reservation four months in advance. I’ll kill you,” you warn him.

John looks thrilled. “You’d try.”

The waiter comes back with menus. Lucky for John. The food is expensive. Even the fucking water is expensive. That’s okay, you’ve been saving up for a while now. John’s shrugged out of your jacket and the front of his dress sags, revealing the hard line of his breastbone arching away into the shadows under the hard bracket of his collarbone. You shift, uncomfortable.

“You okay, dude?”

“Peachy.”

“Your ears are kind of red.”

“They are not. It’s just sweltering like Satan’s asscrack in here.”

“Hm,” John hums, and slides his ankle up your leg slowly.

You are going to kill him. You are going to reinsert those roses by the fistful up his ass until he’s the envy of stuffed turkeys everywhere. “John,” you snarl.

“That’s what fancy table cloths are for, Karkat.” This time the wink is for you. He’s sort of caught your leg between his shins, is just holding on. Suddenly you wish you were back in the comfort of your room, no matter how much you were looking forward to this. You want to touch him, and kiss him, and maybe sit him on your desk in that stupid short dress and- you’re not sure, not really.  

“Karkat.”

be close

“Karkat.”

touch him

“Karkat, buddy.”

kiss him while you slide your hands under the skirt

“Karkatkarkatkarkat!”

John snaps his fingers under your nose. You come back to reality with a blink. “What?”

“Dinner’s here, stupid!”

Huh. It is. Steak and steamed micro vegetables you don’t really remember ordering. John has a hamburger. A fancy one, yes, but still a meat patty between buns. Goddammit. This here is the fanciest restaurant in this shithole of a town and John orders a fucking hamburger. Worst part is that his looks tastier than what you’ve got. Some idiot bukkake’d white sauce all over it.

You were trying for healthy. You’re an _athlete_ dammit! You stab it vindictively with your fork. John eats his burger with his hands. You’re going to get thrown out of the damn restaurant.

He’s still got your calf cradled between his own and the mound of roses provides a pleasantly scented barricade against prying eyes. It’s. This is okay. You’re not sure why you’re nervous. You and John. On a date. And nothing has exploded yet. This is some revolutionary shit right here.

Suddenly this feels real. John’s your boyfriend. Your _boyfriend_. _Your_ boyfriend. It’s not so much that John’s out of your league as that he runs in an entirely different league of his own making. Half of the time you don’t really get him, not really, but _god_ you want to so bad.

You and John kind of… happened. Sudden and unannounced and vaguely baffling as with all things Egbert-related. Him disrupting your life in a flurry of seemingly unrelated incidents, hot, close kisses culminating into… this. A relationship.

(He gave you flowers. So many brownie points. He must never know.)

“Your food is getting cold,” John points out. “Also I saw you peeking down my cleavage just now. That’s strike two, buster.”

Never mind. Turns out those brownie points were merely firmly compressed nuggets of shite fresh from a leporidae’s quivering anus. “Yes, and a fat load of nothing there was to see down there. I have seen walls with more curves,” you say dryly. “So. Tell me about this penalty you’re bleating about.”

John ducks his head over his burger, lets his shoulders lifts in feigned nonchalance. “You go skating with me.”

It takes supreme effort not to let your lip curl. You’d rather hammer a nail into your eye socket. John’s pretending really hard it’s no big deal.

You grunt. “Alright.”

It’s worth it for the way he beams at you. “Awesome! I think Equius might have a pair of skates that’d fit you.”

“If you think I’d willingly dip my feet into an ambulatory foot bag that has been saturated with Equius’ crusty toe-sweat you better rub some life into that single sad braincel of yours, John.”

“Or a skateboard,” John counters. “Just. Please. Anything you want, man, I promise I won’t laugh if you fall or anything. Much. I think I’m probably a pretty good teacher. I’ll provide complimentary bandaids. I’ll kiss all your booboos. I’ll kiss your booboos _twice._ ”

As per demonstration, he reaches over the table for your hand. There’s an ugly scab across your knuckles from a rough tackle during practice, it’s somewhat tender still. John’s ever so careful brushing his mouth across it. One time, then again. Lingers. “There. See?”

And you, walking black hole of failure that you are, just sit there with your heart lodged somewhere in the vicinity of your throat. It’s not a candle-lit dinner, but the edges of John’s face are limned in hazy gold and his lashes are so very dark, and he’s so fucking beautiful you can hardly stand it. His mouth is a warm trail against your skin moving to playfully catch the tip of your index between his teeth.

There’s a loud screech as the table scrapes across the floor with a lurch. John yelps as his glass of (really fucking expensive) water is overturned and dumped into his lap. A knife clatters against the tiles like an accusation. People turn to stare at the scene you just made.

The scene being you, ass levitating right above your seat, having tried to lean closer to John, to kiss him, totally forgetting about the goddamn table. As well as the the restaurant. And the rest of the world.

John blinks about a dozen times. A dark stain is creeping up the bodice of the dress. Slowly, his mouth curls into a savage grin.

“Strike three,” he says happily.

Mother of _fuck_.

*

John drops you off at your doorstep.

( _Like a gentleman, Karkat. Unlike some!_ You whap him over the head.)

There’s no time for a kiss, no time to even figure out how to thank him for the flowers without actually having to fucking say it, no time to say that, yes, he does look nice in the dress.

Because your father pokes his head into the hallway and shouts: “DID YOU TWO HAVE A NICE DATE?” All nice and loud, in case the neighbours weren’t informed of the situation yet.

John waves. “Hey mister V!”

You hit him over the head. “Don’t call my father mister V.”

John mutters, under his breath: “V for Vendetta.”

You whack him again.

“Nice _dress_!” your father says.

“Thanks, mister V! I borrowed it from some cheerleader at school.”

You raise your eyes to the heavens. “Someone please kill me. I’m not asking for much here. Just a single fucking lightning bolt. Or a meteor. Aliens. Anything.”

Your father looks at the roses, at your red face, finally to John. They give each other a thumbs up.

All that worrying they’d hate each other, when you _should_ have been worrying about how disturbingly well they get along. _I was a rebel in school_ , Karkat, your father had said. _A rebel_.

A rebel. Hah. John’s more like a loose canon firing bad jokes at unsuspecting bystanders before ollieing off into the sunset (and usually falling on his ass).

Speaking of ollieing.

John drags a hand through his hair. “I should go home. Thanks for the date, Karkat. It was… it was nice.” He catches his lower lip between his teeth.

“I. Yeah. It was. Not a disaster.”

Oh well done, Karkat. Fuck. Seriously. _Fuck_. If there was a pillar of idiocy for newly godtiered asswads you’d be ascending that motherfucker scrotum first. Jesus.

And why does your father have to stand there, hands clutched besottedly under his chin, watching the two of you awkwardly trip your way through this minefield? Worst family ever.

You scratch at your cheek to hide your expression. John rocks on his heels, apperantly unconcerned.

“Sooooooo… I’ll totally see you tomorrow. At school. Which is the next time we will see each other. In ten hours. Parting is pain and all.” John winks at you. Obviously. Wink, Karkat, wink. Hahaha nobody suspects a thing. “Bye!”

He’s off, skirt swinging lightly around his thighs as he marches down the driveway. You watch him go, throat tight.

In the kitchen there’s evidence of your father’s own attempt at romance, this one actually candlelit. Empty champagne glasses gleam in the firelight and a single rose bobs its head sleepily in a slender vase. Your step-mother is a sleepy curl on the couch, hair tumbling towards the floor. Someone has draped a quilt over her, tucking in the corners to keep her warm and safe. You thread quietly.

A quick shower, easy clothes. You stand in front of the mirror and glower at your reflection, stomach full of butterflies. This is stupid. It’s hardly the first time John’s crawled through your window at night. But today your face is extra stupid. Your hair is extra stupid. Your everything is extra stupid, you can’t believe you went on a date like this. You poke your face, comb your hair and change your pants. Your ‘I am a worst case scenario’ t-shirt is awesome though, that’s definitely staying.

The flowers take up all the space on your nightstand. You move your clock and lamp to the floor instead.

All you have to do is wait. You settle into bed with a book, stare stonily at the pages as your brain careens off the tracks into no-man’s land. It sometimes takes John a while, performing his own routines to keep up appearances. Plus he had to change, he said. Back to maximum scruffiness. You wonder what’ll happen to the dress. Probably back to Damara.

Which is for the best. Really.

A knock on the door. You glance at the clock, it’s barely been ten minutes. Perhaps it’s Nepeta, stopping by for some late-night recreational arm-twisting, wanting sordid details about your date (you only wish there were any). “What?” you bite out.

It’s your father who slips into your room, crooked grin in place. “Kid. Keep it down tonight and stay safe,” with that he lobs something onto your bed.

Condoms. Lube.

No. Dad. _Why_.

That’s it. You’re dead. Your soul expired in a single hot flame of mortification, your body just doesn’t know it yet.

Your father winks, exactly the same with John did earlier. Obviously. “I told you. I used to be a rebel, too.”

The door closes behind him with all the finality of having secured the punchline to the ultimate joke.

Horrified, you stare at the offending items on your bedsheets. The foil packaging of the condoms gleam back.

That really just happened. Your father really just came in okay’d you messing around with another boy in your bed. That’s. Embarrassing. Shit. But…your parents are kind of awesome. You are painfully aware of that, actually. You’d been so scared when you introduced John to them. Had held his hand hard enough it had gone numb (had to kiss it better, after). It’d just been… okay. They still loved you, still treated you the same. They’d adored John. You’re so very, very lucky.

But goddamn your face is hot enough it’s a miracle your bed hasn’t caught fire yet. No way you’ll be able to look your father in the eyes come morning.

With his usual sense of excellent timing, John chooses this moment to toss a pebble at your window. (You told him not to, one of these days he’d going to shatter the glass, but he insists this is how they do it in the movies, Karkat, du’h.) You scramble out of bed and throw the window wide.

He’s still in the dress.

“Karkat! _PST_!”

“Stop lisping like a spastic snake and get up here.”

John’s smile is brilliant even in the darkness. “He speaks. O, speak again, bright angel!”

“I fucking swear I will wring your neck.”

“As glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven, unto-“

“ _Egbert_!”

“-the white, upturned… alright, alright. Geez.”

The trellis creaks in complaint as he monkeys up to your window. There’s leaves in his hair when his head pokes over the windowsill. “Hi!” he says and darts in to steal a kiss from your surprised mouth.

Probably flashing the entire neighbourhood with his ass sticking out into thin air like that.

You haul him to safety. “Get in.”

There’s too much snickering from John’s side and he’s covered in leaf litter that scatters at your feet when you give him a rough, cursory dusting-off. The pit of your belly goes warm as you sweep palms along his waist, his back. John’s just grinning at your overheated face. “Hi again.”

“Yeah. Hi.”

He’s shorter, needs to go on tiptoes to kiss you. Your hands are still at his waist, barely daring to settle, but a wiry arm slings around your neck for leverage, tugging you down and closer, close enough he can lick your mouth open. Slowly. One, two drags of his tongue before your lips part under his and then it’s just warmth, hungry and soft, a little too eager. Letting him, you curl fingers around his waist, dizzy at how slender he is, how hot his skin is under the thin fabric.

Suddenly the desk is behind him, you got him pinned and he’s wide-eyed, maybe a little scared, you’re built like a tank compared to him. His breathing stutters. Your hormones howl through your blood.

You draw back. “Sorry,” you gasp, dropping your head to his shoulder.

“What?”

“We can. We can. Video games. Do you want to play video games? We can play video games.”

John nudges you with his chin. “Do _you_ want to play video games?”

“I. Uh.”

“Hey. Stupid. Look at me.”

You look at him. John touches your jaw, slides his mouth across yours. He’s watching you, smiles as you stutter out a stupid crushed noise of wanting, hand clumsy on his hips. Gently swipes the tip of his nose against yours. “Stop freaking out,” he whispers. “I am totally okay with this.”

You look at each other. John’s watching from under lowered lashes, just waiting for you to catch up, and something clicks in your chest when you understand you’re being given permission.

You groan and hide your face again, stopping your hands from wanting to grab and pull and _have_. “Shit. _John_.”

“Ooooh, murmur sweet nothings to me, baby, yeah!”

Tickles when he sniggers into your hair like that. In retaliation you set your teeth at the tender, secret spot where the crook of his neck becomes almost his nape, listen to the air flowing backwards into his lungs. One of your hands cups the side of his thigh, hikes him onto the edge of your desk, just like you wanted earlier. Legs part to settle around you and suddenly everything is very warm and very real. He’s hard.

“Say stop,” you whisper into his skin.

“Don’t stop.” There’s shyness there now, you’re reminded of that first kiss, at that party, sitting for hours on the curb holding each other’s hands not looking at each other.

Falling in love with John had been like a blow to the head. Painful and confusing and possibly life-altering. A little scary. John’s very new, and very exciting, something like an ill-matching puzzle piece that fails to fit into your everyday life. Pretty colors though, nice shape, intriguing pictures. You could look at it for hours.

You feel stupidly protective over him, over this shyness, over the thin fabric of the dress and those long, bruised legs clutching at your sides.“Thought you were going to change,” you murmur.

“I did.” John takes ones of your hands, eases the tips of your fingers under the hem. No need to go very high, there’s a solid cotton clutching his thigh almost immediately. Boxers. “That lace was seriously chafing my balls. Girls are hardcore man.”

You smother a grin against his ear. “You’re ridiculous,” you don’t mean for your voice to come out so fond.

“I try,” John admits modestly. Pushes lightly against your chest and hops off the desk. “Help me out of this dress, big boy.”

He’s ridiculous. Why was that sexy. God.

With your reading lamp banished to the floor the lighting allows for shadowy swathes and muted outlines. The line of John’s back is like a knife to the chest and you have no idea what to do. The zipper is tiny between your shaking fingers, there’s a soft metallic exhale as you ease it down -all the way to the small of John’s back. Suddenly there’s all this lovely boyskin you’ve never really touched before, the wing of his shoulder blades and the curve of his back and, fuck, he smells really good there.

Electric heat cracks through your body.

Tastes good there, too. Somewhat hazier, darker than his mouth or face. You rest your mouth at the pronounced bump at the top of his spine. Smooth, warm, a little downy when you move upwards, where his hair is soft hidden curls before erupting into the usual disaster. Shoulders gone slack, John heads droops forward to give you more access. You scrape teeth over the line of his neck, nip the earlobe with the three ridiculous studs in it, stroke knuckles down his spine, fascinated by the way John’s muscles flex and tighten in response. Next you try it with your lips, watch his skin tighten into goosebumps, the way air’s pushed out of his lungs a little faster, a little deeper.

The daintily capped sleeves catch at his biceps when you ease them down his shoulders, but now there’s room for your hands to slide into the bodice and around his bare ribs.

“Should. Should I be worried by how much you like the dress?” John manages. His pulse slams between your palms, caught, he’s swaying ever so slightly to its beat.

You bite him for that, right under his jaw, because you want him to know, know how fucking good it feels to be with him. John just hisses and tips his chin up for more. “Your lack of braincells worries me,” you growl into the raw skin. “It’s not the damn dress, you dolt. It’s all the exposed skin, drives me fucking crazy…”

Enough. The wretched thing has to go. There’s barely anything for you to undress, it just puddles to the floor around sneakers John’s already stepping out of and then quite suddenly there’s a nearly naked boy in your room. Wearing nothing besides a pair of boxers, his glasses, some bracelets at his left wrist and a blush like a guilty plea.

“C’mere,” John says, holding out fingers for you to take.

You go to him, and then there’s your bed, familiar, comforting, and John’s on his back and extremely warm and lovely and going “Uh. Karkat?” pulling the somewhat squashed foil strip of condoms from under his ass.

“My dad knows,” you blurt, like a complete imbecile.

John’s mouth hangs open. Not his most attractive moment. “Your. Dad. What?”

“Gave me… that, because he wants us to be safe or whatever _don’t look at me like that_.”

John makes a face at the condoms. “I’m. Just going to put those over here and not think about what you said.” He’s thinking about it. “And. Your dad knows we’re…”

“I guess so.”

“And he’s _okay_ with it?!”

“Obviously.”

John laughs nervously. You find his eyes in the darkness. Both of you are shaking with badly suppressed emotion. Your cock is so full it hurts. Thank you hormones, for absolutely nothing.

You eye him. “Are. Are you okay with it?”

“Me? I’m fine. Totally not considering the implications of having sex with another boy or anything. I mean, I knew what and where and stuff, haha, the internet is for porn yay! but now it’s happening and I have no idea what to expect and could you just kiss me? And maybe take off your shirt, that’d be cool.”

That you can do, taking the edge of your shirt and peeling it over your head. John’s pretty quiet when you drop it off to the side, eyes slowly going down your body and back up, color rising in his face. He’s hard in those tight boxers of his, a damp spot at the head of his cock where it’s trapped against the sharp arch of his hip. Huh. Likes what he sees.

You settle down next to him and his hands go to your body, from your chest to your belly, pausing at a scar along your ribs before thumbing at the lines of muscle bracketing your navel. His face his hot, and he’s hot between his legs, too, when you push one of your own up between them. John makes a low, filthy noise and goes after your mouth.

 _Yes_ , you think. _Fuck. Yes._

This is happening, John Egbert is in your bed and you can feel his dick against your thigh when you grind up slow, his mouth slackening so you can lick between his lips and feel him arch for it. You’re half distracted by the sight of your dark hands huge on the slender flex of his body, how he’s thick and heavy in his underwear.

John bites the swell of your bicep, hard and stinging, you palm his ass and hitch him closer, where you’re hard and wanting as well. Too much fabric, your jeans hurt, you growl in frustration, and John’s clever fingers are there to pop the button, allowing more space for your cock to grow hard. Fingers sneak under the waistband of your shorts, thumb sliding through the satin-salt wetness at the tip of your cock, tracing the shape of you. You nearly come then and there.

It’s sloppy, you’re just licking at his mouth, and John’s hooks a leg over your hip to angle himself against you, close enough you can feel the shape of the ridge of his cockhead dragging against yours.

Someone curses, a strangle of noise, but it’s John who groans _ah, ah fuck_ when you suck his lower lip into your mouth.

Close, you think, and it takes all your willpower to tear your attention away from how he’s fucking himself against you to look at his face instead, taking in the blissed out, lost look to him, his pink ears and the wet mess of his mouth, the fever of his eyes behind the skewed glasses.

You press your forehead against his. ”Look at you,” you tell him, awed, and watch an answering flicker of a smile cross his mouth. “Goddammit John.”

You’ll remember this, John’s fingers pushing into your hair and kissing you, kissing you, kissing you like it’s breathing.

You find his cock in his boxers, tacky with need and overheated, different from your own and a little strange and kind of perfect, going thicker and harder still when palm him close to his belly. It’s enough to make him come, tensing up and shaking like he’s hurt and so quiet, body going rigid like shock.

Nails scrabble at your flanks, leaving notches in your skin as he clings to you.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, and then rougher, broken, pleading, you’re close, fuck, you’re so so _close_. “John, don’t stop.”

“Wait,” John murmurs, dazed. “Hang on, here.”

You keen when the fabric peels away from your sensitive dick. The cool air is too much, too sharp, you’re too close, too sensitive, too full and empty all at once, you can’t stand it, you’re stupid and heavy from how badly you need to come right now, from how much more you still need from him, and then John’s hand wraps warm around your cock. Skin-on-skin, rough and clumsy as he pumps you to completion.

Blood thumps in your ears like breaking waves, pushing out your release in rushing bursts of agonising pleasure. You hide your face into John’s hair, mouthing it as you gasp, holding on for dear life. He holds you back just as hard.

Stunned, you lie in his arms. All sound seems muted and there’s a gentle ache in your groin you’ve never felt this keenly before. Your _thighs_ are shaking. Your _lips_ are numb. Holy shit.

John’s trailing lazy kisses along the top of your chest, going mhmm softly as he settles.

There’s still the roar of your blood and soft, sleepy noises from John, yes, but it’s profoundly quiet, suddenly, which means it wasn’t -you weren’t- just a moment ago. The idea that anybody heard, knows, that you had this strange precious thing (sex?) with John… it’s alarming —they don’t know, not really, what that was like. Fuck, _you’re_ not even sure what happened (sex??), it’s a little too big and new to think about it now. The one thing you’re already absolutely sure of is that you want more of it, of him, of John. That, and that you’re glad that this happened in your bed, easy and safe, not somewhere rushed where it might’ve been awkward. Er.

(…sex???)

“So,” you grit out. The word snags in your dry throat. You clear it. “That was. Nice.”

John nods into your chest. “I. Yeah. It was. Not a disaster.” He’s got the gravel of your pitch, the grudgingness of the words down pat.

… the little beast.

You pinch him under his arm and he jumps, almost knees you in your already tender balls. Too tired to tussle, you just flatten him to the bed with your superior weight. John lets you, warm and pliant. Tugs your arm over his back like you’re a novelty blanket.

“We didn’t use any of the- the stuff.”

“Condoms.”

“Yeah. That.”

“Lube.”

“Right.”

“Did you want to?”

Silence.

You play fingers through his hair absently, feeling him breathe. “No,” he admits after a while. Then, softer. “Not yet. We. We’ve got time, right?”

It’s too dark for him to see you nod once, tightly. Time. Yeah. You do, this is just the beginning. It’s going to get so much worse and so much better and you’re such deep shit already. You kiss the top of his head.

“Awesome,” John says and the sheer relief of it doesn’t escape you. Big mouth. Small heart— no. Big heart, very very big heart. God. _Fuck_. You close your eyes and pull him close.

Both of you yawn at the same time, and John’s sniggering as you throw a possessive arm and leg over him. Your come is cooling in your pubes and your dick is hanging out and your jeans are rucked up under your ass, but the world could be ending and you wouldn’t give a single fucking shit. Already you’re on the edge of sleep, eyelids going heavy and body sinking into the mussed sheets.

“Do you have to leave?” you whisper.

You don’t want him to.

Not now.

Not after this.

“I’ll sneak back home before my dad wakes up,” John says, easy, like it’s an absolutely fucking normal thing to do. “Probably thinks I was out TPing Dave’s house again.” Again. The small joys of life and all. John’s not done. “Instead of. Here. With you.”

“John,” you say, low into his hair.

Suddenly the bracelets on his wrist are very interesting. Twist-untwist. Fidget, fidget. He rolls the coloured beads between his fingertips. “I think he knows.” Sigh. Shrug. One of the bands snaps against skin. John throws up his arms. “He _totally_ knows. There was a pamphlet. Several pamphlets. In strategic locations.”

“…pamphlets. In strategic locations.”

“In the box of Lucky Charms. Taped to the toilet door. Folded between my underwear.”

“…wow.”

“Hey! At least _my dad_ didn’t lob condoms at my head and told me to go get ‘em tiger, rwar!”

“He didn’t-“ you stop. That’s exactly what he did and you both know it. Goddammit, dad. Why? _Why_? “Shut up,” you grunt.

“So.” John doesn’t shut up. You’re not even surprised. However, you do stop him from strangling his wrist with the bracelets -pulling his hand towards your mouth instead. Kiss his palm and smirk when his breathing catches.

“So.”

“You should probably come and meet my dad and. And take me on another date.” Your burgeoning bubble of joy pops like soap when he cheerfully adds: “A skating date.”

You groan, punch the pillow theatrically.

“Not a gentleman. Penalty. You _promised_!”

You promised exactly jackfuckingshit, but. Fuck. “Fine,” you give in, giving the heel of his hand a surly nip. You are going to fall and break your neck just to spite him. You’ll die. He’ll feel terrible.

Fingers catch your chin, lips find your mouth and he kisses you slow, in a sure, steady way that’s a promise all on its own. The way you can only kiss someone already yours and, well, you are. The little fucker knows you are, damn him to hell anyway.

You kind of adore him. He’s lovely. You want to kick his ass. He’s horrible. You… you might… kind of love him. A little.

Softly, mouth still damp at the corner of yours John hums, singsongs: “You are as beautiful as a piece of bling, you make my heart sing! I want to make you feel like a-ACK!”

You kick his ass.

Thoroughly.

 

**Author's Note:**

> relevant: [John in a dress.](http://hellatortoise.tumblr.com/post/139120247999/everlinds-jockat-au-as-much-as-i-like-angsty)


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